


Sacrilege

by coffeethyme4me



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-20
Updated: 2010-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeethyme4me/pseuds/coffeethyme4me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frotting, rain, nipples.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrilege

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gyzym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/gifts).



> Don't own 'em!

He'd caught him. Finally caught him. Peter had Neal, literally, in his hands. And there was no one around to stop him from releasing the painful grip of his fingers and simply letting him go.

This was not a bust. Not orchestrated in any way. Peter was off hours. He'd gone to get a decaf at Lenny's to clear his head. El was at a movie with friends. He'd gotten one of those pastries she'd warned him never to eat again, with all the delicious trans fats. A one-man boy's night out.

And he was just walking home. It was dark, and it was raining, and Peter had brought no umbrella. It wasn't long before he was soaked. It wasn't long before he spotted Neal Caffrey, easy as pie, walking along the sidewalk.

Peter chased. No gun, no back-up. Just his legs and Neal's, their feet slapping the pavement puddles. Neal took a wrong turn down an alley, back-tracked, jumped a guard rail and landed in a drainage canal rushing shallowly with rainwater.

Peter followed, his jeans heavy on his legs, lips cold. And he was close. He was so close. If Neal had not turned his head, their eyes meeting briefly, Peter may never have gotten close enough, though. But he did. His hands grabbed, and he had Neal thrown against the grey wall, the shadows of the overpass, just there, just out of reach.

And God help him, he wanted to let him go. Neal's hot breath bathed Peter's lips they were so close. And Peter flushed with guilt, remorse. To cage this beautiful a thing would be sacrilege. He was torn in two: ever-present badge against his ribs, Neal Caffrey, alive and hot against the wall and wet. The rain dripped off his chin. Peter had his stylish jacket in his fists. It hurt to have him so close. And without a word, with the double guilt of being a man of the law and a faithful husband, too, Peter closed the distance, pulling Neal's hair to open his mouth, and kissed him.

His mouth was sugary sweet, lips chill but tongue warm, and he let Peter kiss him; he kissed Peter back, though his hands never moved to lift. Not to pull in. Not to push away. Peter could feel Neal's excited erection growing through the thin, clinging slacks, against the crook of Peter's denim-covered thigh and hip, like it fit there.

He had suspected. Just suspected. Nothing more. And now…

Neal opened and lifted his leg, wrapping it around Peter, licking his liar's tongue deftly into Peter's hungry mouth. "Peter," he sighed, and that voice broke him, and Peter pulled Neal's leg up, grinding wet body to wet body, the rain still coming, drowning them both, concealing them in grey slate while they rutted in a ditch together.

Peter yanked the suit jacket off Neal's shoulders, pinning his arms in it, though now-desperate hands clawed at his jeans, wanting a cock. Peter broke the kiss, his body surging into Neal's rhythmically, rubbing his trapped penis roughly first on Neal's fumbling hands, and then when those fell away, on Neal's soaked crotch, finding the right slide, finding Neal's deep, pleading eyes.

The rain slipped down Neal's cheeks like tears, and it plastered his white dress shirt to his chest and stomach. Peter saw the red little nipples standing out cold. But they looked wanton, like begging things. Peter pressed his thumbs down on them, hard, pushing and rubbing and chaffing on them while their hips worked wildly. Neal's head dropped back on the wall, nipples thrust into Peter's rough thumbs. Peter butted against him, pinching Neal's nipples until his hands shook, and Neal shuddered violently, coming against him.

Peter stared at Neal's bared neck, his tortured face, while Neal's pelvis undulated on him and the stroke of Peter's clothed dick teased the last of Neal's cum from his.

Confused, Peter stood there hard and wanting. And suddenly, Neal's hands were trying to free his cock again. Neal slid to his knees in the water, forcing Peter to take a step back. Neal's eyes cast up to him, Peter's fly already loose, Neal's jacket hanging from his elbows.

"No," he said, frowning, stepping back again. "No, Neal." Even though his prick cried yes and leaked hot in his cold jeans.

"What do you want?" Neal asked, starting to shiver. Peter looked down at him, wet at his feet.

Then Peter backed away. He left Neal there on the ground, ready to suck his cock, and he shook his head, turning, and walking quickly away. He couldn't look back. What he had done was wrong. What he was doing was wrong. But arresting Neal Caffrey after frotting him, wet, against a concrete wall in the dark… Would be the worst wrong of all.

Peter climbed the embankment, to get away, to get home, to get dry and warm and try to face himself in the mirror, in the morning, in the office, with his wife. He had told himself he wouldn't look back, but the drive to chase and find Neal was too great and he succumbed. Neal was gone. In the place where they had been was an empty shadow. Peter's cock still ached. His mouth ached from kissing him. Peter climbed back over the guard rail and began the long walk home.


End file.
